Arbutus
by scarlet-egg
Summary: Hector had only ever loved one.


Hector LeMans had only ever loved one.

He had no time for romantic sentiment - their eyes had never met dramatically across a crowded room; they had never been thrown together by a series of inexplicable coincidences; there had never been mutual loathing that transitioned ever so slyly into vitriolic affection, no matter how they fought against the inevitable. _Those_ were games for people whose lives were so empty they had to create drama from the mundane, after all.

She had simply sashayed into his life, tilted her head and grinned, and strutted away again - and then when _he_ was quite ready, Hector had followed after, and never looked back.

He was so young back then; snot-nosed and full of life, brimming with piss and vinegar. That first day they met, he was sprawled on the ground, glaring up at his tormentor - spitting threats and vowing vengeance, for all the good it did. He was laughed at, the older boy baring his palms and begging for mercy, all the while never pausing in his attack.

The bruises had haunted Hector for weeks.

He still remembers the twinge, low in his gut, as he launched himself up; there was a wet _thwap!_ as his pudgy fist crushed the sneering face, then a warm splatter across his cheek as blood spilled. He stood, chest heaving, in the hushed aftermath.

There were four of them and only one of him. The outcome had never been in debate.

But _she_ had noticed him, that day - there was a quick tilt of her head, momentarily curious before she looked away again, but it was enough. She stood at the edge of the circle with her sisters; she with her red hair and high cheekbones; another with golden tresses, clad in green; the last all dark hair and dark eyes and long sleeves. They were all so _desired_, even then - but it was the oldest, first, who met Hector's gaze.

He thought about that often. The memory warmed him to the depths of his soul, it really did.

He grew, learning what he wanted - and once he knew, he _took_ it. His reputation rippled out and he traipsed along in its wake, until finally she came creeping forward, dripping coy smiles and honeyed words. She draped herself over his arm, resting her cheek against his, and whispered into his ear... over, and over, and over again.

Hector wasn't stupid, and he wasn't blind - he knew _exactly_ what was happening, and made no attempt to halt it. She was so beautiful and intoxicating, he would have been a fool to try and deny the attraction. Instead he forged ahead, never feeling a flicker of guilt for his actions - and she only clung tighter, amused by his audacity, willingly descending with him into the abyss.

It never occurred to him that _he_ descended with _her_.

Death had never worried him - he was _Hector LeMans_, and death was such a mundane concern, meant for the ignorant masses. It came as a mild surprise, when he breathed his last _(with blood on his hands and his own at his feet, no shame and no regrets)_ and then he was gone, shuffled into the afterlife without so much as a backwards glance or a pat on the head for his efforts.

Even then, she followed.

But he was no fool, and devotion had its limits; this was a whole new world to take and command, and she was no faithful dog to lie at his feet. He found it amusing she would dare expect him to prove his worth again - if only because _he_ wouldn't have laid his bets, either, before he saw who the winning horse would be. That was only good sense.

Hector never doubted he would earn her favour once more, and it wasn't long before he stood over his first sacrifice - the first one here, who had _dared_ challenge him. The sprout gun hung in his hand, heavier than he expected, but he forgot all about the second she appeared.

_(-her arms around his neck and surely her breath would be hot against his ear, as she whispered her promises, if only __**she **__still breathed and if only __**he**__ still had flesh-)_

He squeezed the trigger.

It made barely any sound at all, and they watched together - all bated breath and shining eyes - as the first flower appeared. It flickered up almost shyly, swaying in the breeze, and then _bloomed_. It spilled across the bones, suffocating and consuming, until there was nothing left but colour and beauty and _life_. All he could do was laugh, delighting in the sheer joy of destruction he had wrought.

No - that they had _created_.

It was then Hector understood she was all he would ever need. Other desires would come and go, but death itself would always be enough, if she stayed with him.

So, she did.

She was there as he brought death and destructions to the petty insects, scuttling across the underworld and under his feet. She was there as he amassed enough wealth to _buy_ the land he roamed, and tossed it aside just as quickly. And she was there, when it grew tedious, so that she might drape herself across him and whisper dark reminders. It was her suggestion to hoard the tickets, to punish the saints - and with her, Hector was never bored.

On a whim, he created the greenhouse. It was a small hut on a hill; nothing fancy, nothing noteworthy.

But it was a gift for _her_; the only one he would ever build such a blatant shrine too. She delighted in it, enthralled by his cruelty - the colour spilled across the tables, out the windows, down the hill, and still she demanded _more_. He would wander the plants, caressing the petals and whispering the stories of those fallen in her name, over and over again.

Her presence was suffocating, and he never tired of it.

Others tried to distract him, naturally - always _some_ misguided soul thought themselves worthy of his attention, if not affection, and he used them without hesitation, only to toss them aside when they outlived their usefulness. Even her sister with the golden tresses would flirt with his danger, and he would be lying if he said he'd never considered it, but in the end, she was simply...

..._inadequate_.

These passing fancies were meaningless and quickly forgotten - some understood from the start and some took longer to learn, but all _did_. A few, even, lay there on the hill, and those were the ones she loved the most. Those were the ones _she_ treasured.

Yes, had only ever loved one - but his lust _consumed_ him, and he loved her with every fibre of his being, more than he even cared for his own self. As long as she was there, by his side and favouring him above all others... he would be _happy_. As long as she forever whispered her promises to him, alone and in the dead of night, he would be _satisfied_.

He built a shrine and he worshipped her, for he could not imagine life without her.

Hector Lemans loved her, and her name was _control_.


End file.
